


Only Fiction

by WolfieOnAO3



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Angst, Based on KotG so I mean...., Dialogue Heavy, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, The Knees of the Gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:29:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25786645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: Of all the stories I had written about my life with A. J. Raffles, this was the one which had cost me the most to write up, and which I was the most anxious to have gotten right. It mattered that this story, more than any of the others, hit its mark. I owed Raffles that much.Bunny receives some constructive criticism on the manuscript which would later be published under the titleThe Knees of the Gods.
Relationships: Bunny Manders/A. J. Raffles
Comments: 13
Kudos: 16





	Only Fiction

**Author's Note:**

> The KotG quote at the start is, of course, written by E.W. Hornung!

> _“‘I have had a good time, Bunny.’_
> 
> _Yes, his voice was sad; but that was all; the vibration must have been in me._
> 
> _‘I know you have, old chap.’_
> 
> _‘I am grateful to the General for giving me today. It may be the last. Then I can only say it’s been the best -- by Jove!’_
> 
> _‘What is it?’_
> 
> _And I opened my eyes. His were shining. I can see them now._
> 
> _‘Got him -- got the hat! No, I’m hanged if I have; at least he wasn’t in it. The crafty cuss, he must have stuck it up on purpose. Another over… scoring’s slow… I wonder if he’s sportsman enough to take a hint? His hat-trick’s foolish. Will he show his face if I show mine?’_
> 
> _I lay with closed ears and eyes. My leg had come to life again, and the rest of me was numb._
> 
> _‘Bunny!’_
> 
> _His voice sounded higher. He must have been sitting upright._
> 
> _‘Well?’_
> 
> _But it was not well with me; that was all I thought as my lips made the words._
> 
> _‘It’s not only been the best time I ever had, old Bunny, but I’m not half sure--’_
> 
> _Of what I can but guess; the sentence was not finished, and never would be in this world.”_

I wasn’t sure of that ending. Thematically I felt it was appropriate; metaphorically it was perfect; but whether or not it would be an ending appreciated by the average reader of _Cassell’s,_ I was far from confident.

So concerned was I, in fact, that I had sought out specific and expert feedback on this story in particular before coming anywhere near to sending it to my agent. Waiting to receive constructive criticism on it felt like downright torture; and I had been waiting days now. Of all the stories I had written about my life with A. J. Raffles, this was the one which had cost me the most to write up, and which I was the most anxious to have gotten _right_. It _mattered_ that this story, more than any of the others, hit its mark. I owed Raffles that much.

‘Well?’ I asked impatiently as the final leaf of my manuscript was laid down by its interminably slow reader. I paced the room, my heart about ready to leap from my chest. ‘What do you think? It doesn’t work, does it? It’s too abrupt. I tried to be too clever and it ruins the whole thing. I wanted to do it _justice_ , but it’s so--’ 

I cut myself off as I finally looked at my proof-reader, who was leaning back langorously in his chair and staring at my manuscript with a furrowed brow, his unscrupulous mouth pressed into a hard line on his ever handsome face.

‘A. J.? Do say something? This suspense is killing me!’

Raffles ran his hand over his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

‘Mm,’ he nodded. ‘Fine. It’s fine. It’s good. Creative.’

‘You hate it!’ I cried, flinging myself into the armchair opposite and burying my face in my hands. ‘You do hate it, don’t you? God, I knew it. It’s terrible!’

‘No! No, I don’t _hate_ it--’

You’re trying not to _laugh_ ,’ I groaned. ‘Oh, god, is it that bad? It’s too maudlin, isn’t it? I’m going to have to write the whole thing again. It’s _difficult_ , A. J.! I’ve never been in the damned army, how am I meant to know what to write!’

‘It’s not that, I’m sure that’s all fine, it’s just--’ 

‘What? Just spit it out. Tell me the worst. Ugh.’

‘It’s only-- Good _lord_ , Bunny, did you have to end it quite so _tragically_? It’s-- Look, can’t you at least take out the bit about you getting shot?’

‘That was one of the few parts I _liked!_ Don’t you like it?’

‘No I do not! I don’t like it, Bunny. I don’t like it at all.’

My heart sank. In spite of my trepidations, in spite of my anxieties and doubts, I had been hoping that he, at least, would appreciate my efforts. I’d put a lot into that story, to shape the narrative in a way I'd hoped would appease Raffles and the ridiculous plan he’d concocted, as well as satisfying my -- I hoped, one day -- popular readership, and earning me a small place in the annals of literary history. I know I’d asked A. J. to be honest with me about his thoughts on it, but still, his overly frank words were as painful as-- well, a shot to the leg, I suppose.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘ _Thanks_.’

‘And you make me out to be entirely too heroic,’ he went on, unaware of or unmoved by my utter dejection. ‘You all but suggest I’m _sorry_ for everything I’ve done. As though I’m _penitent_. And then you just-- _kill me_!’

‘That’s the point of the whole bloody thing, A. J.!’ I snapped at him. ‘You die seeking your redemption, and I return to England battle-scarred and ever loyal! Then _we_ ,’ I said, pointing at the flesh-and-blood he-and-I sitting comfortably in Richmond and as far away from the deserts of Africa as could be imagined, ‘can disappear off to Australia, free as larks, just like you want to, and I’ll still be able to periodically show my face in London and take care of affairs here! It was _your_ bloody idea!’

‘I know, but-- God, rabbit. This is--’ He shook his head and looked aghast at the manuscript on his lap; the manuscript all but written in my sweat, blood and tears. I was beginning to get quite annoyed with him. ‘It’s _harrowing…’_

‘ _And,’_ I added, cutting him off, determined to argue him down, despite having _asked_ him to speak frankly, ‘anything else I write will be much easier to get into publication if I turn you into a “redeemed hero”. I’ve gotten a good advance on the first set of stories, but Cassell’s has already gotten letters of complaint about _Ides_ , _Costume_ , and _Gentlemen_ , you know. Some people are worried I’m _glamourising crime_ … So I’ve got to make you sorry for it all in the end -- though I barely even do that; I’ve half a mind to be a bit more explicit about it. If I don’t then the editor won’t give me a second run. He might not even publish the eight I've got...’

‘He told you that?’

‘Well, no,’ I admitted. ‘He implied, and I inferred. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? You know what those moral crusaders are like. But everyone is dotty for those moralising stories where the villain realises the error of his ways and dies a hero in the end; it's the way to go, Raffles. You’ll be more popular than ever.’

‘I don’t _want_ to be _popular_.’

‘Liar,’ I retorted. ‘And anyway, even if you don’t, _I do_. I can make good money off of these; and people _like_ the stories. They like my writing.’

‘Quite right, too. I’ve always said you had the makings of a great author in you, Bunny. But this isn’t-- I just don’t think that--’ He shook his head and shrugged. ‘Look, maybe we should scrap the whole thing. London is far preferable to Australia; and how many times can one chap reasonably fake his own death, after all? Scotland Yard isn't so hot on our trail just yet.’

‘Don’t be an ass. We’re not _giving up_ on _the plan_ simply because you disapprove of my writing! I can’t believe you’re suggesting--’ I shook my head and set my jaw firm. ‘No. It’s a good story, A. J., and it does exactly what it needs to. And I don’t care if you don’t like it! What do you know about anything?’ I scowled petulantly. ‘I don’t see what’s so bad about it!’

‘You kill me off!’

‘You _told me to_!’

‘Yes but I didn’t think you’d--’

‘What? Do such a hash job of it? Well I’m sorry I’m not _skilled_ enough to write you the dramatic exit you _deserve_ , Raffles. Why don’t you go and hire that Conan Doyle hack, have him throw you off a waterfall or something instead, if that’s more to your _tastes_!’

‘For God’s sake, Bunny, it’s not _you_ , it’s--’

‘No, be my guest! If you think I’m such a terrible writer--’

‘It’s too sad!’ Raffles cried, throwing his hands in the air and falling back into his chair. ‘It’s far too sad, Bunny. I don’t like it. Write something else.’

Realisation slowly dawned over me.

‘You weren’t trying not to _laugh,’_ I said, slowly.

‘Bunny…’

‘...You were trying not to _cry_ \--!’ I leapt from my seat in triumph and snatched the manuscript from him. ‘Hah!’

‘Shut up.’

‘You never cry at _anything_!’

‘I wasn’t _crying_ ,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘Yes you were! Or close to it! But that’s great, Raffles! That’s what I was going for! I was worried I’d laid it on too thick, or that I’d not laid it on thick enough, but-- Which part was it that got to you the most? Was it the very end, where I have to watch you die before you finish your last sentence? Or when I got shot and you think I’m about to die in your arms? Or--’

‘Please _stop_ ,’ he groaned, dragging his hand over his face. ‘God, what’s _wrong_ with you?’

I paused in my gleeful crowing, only now seeing that my dear Raffles appeared genuinely grey-faced. I’d been too preoccupied over the slight to my writing to notice.

‘...A. J.?’ I said, kneeling beside him and laying my hand over his.

‘It’s not pleasant, Bunny,’ he answered, not looking at me, ‘reading about-- about you getting _hurt_ like that. Or about me being--’ he sighed, and turned his face towards mine, expression bleak. ‘Do you really think that of me, Bunny?’

‘Think what?’

‘That I’d-- That I’d _leave you_ like that? Get myself killed, right in front of you? Whilst you were--’ He winced, leaving his sentence unfinished. ‘You could have warned a chap, rabbit.'

I suddenly saw my story with his fresh eyes. I’d been so tied up in the logistics of the thing, in finding the right words, and in setting the right tone, that I’d quite lost sight of the fact that I had been writing about the tragic and really rather brutal death of the man I loved more than anything in the world, whilst “I” lay all-but dying at his side. 

It really was a bit grim.

...Especially after all that he had been through.

‘I had to kill you off, A. J.’ I said gently. ‘That’s the whole point of the story. That was _your idea_. So that we can make a clean break, again. That’s the _point._ ’

‘I know, but--’ Raffles pushed his hand into my hair and pulled me closer towards him, pressing a kiss against my forehead. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, rabbit.’

‘What for?’

‘For being the sort of man about whom a story like this could plausibly be written.’

‘It’s just a story, A. J.,' I insisted. 'It’s not like the others. It's one is pure fiction. It doesn’t mean anything. I know you’d never really…’

I found myself trailing off with that sentence as I considered the words that I was saying. And I wondered for the first time why I’d had A. J., my fictional A. J., deliberately raise his head above cover; why I’d had him deliberately and willingly get himself shot. There were any other number of ways I might have written it. It had just seemed right. It was the way the story -- his story, our story -- had to end. 

But it was only fiction. 

It _was only fiction._

Raffles stared into the middle distance with a darkened brow, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. 

I reached out and took his hand, and squeezed.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't think. I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that. I wasn't thinking. I'm an idiot. You know I love you, A. J.?' 

He nodded, still distant, and ran a pink tongue over dry lips. ‘I know. God knows why, rabbit, but I know you do.’

'And it is just a story, nothing more. It really doesn't mean anything. It's just a story, just a stupid story.'

Raffles looked back up at me, then, with a bright smile that didn’t quite reach his fathomless blue eyes. ‘It’s not just a story, Bunny; it's a _good story_. Brilliant, in fact. One of the best things you’ve written.’

‘...Really?’

‘Yes. And you’re right; it does exactly what we need it to.’

‘I still have time to change it, if you want? It’s your _dramatic exit_ , after all. We have plenty of time. I wasn't planning on sending it until we were long out of the country. More than enough time to re-write the entire thing, if you prefer.’

‘No, it’s-- It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘ _Plausible._ And marvellously written, as always. You’ve done a good job, Bunny.’ As he spoke, Raffles rose from his chair, squeezing my hand as he went. ‘We’ll be much safer, after this. You’ve done me a good turn, once again, my dear boy. I’m sorry if I snapped at you over it. It just caught me off guard, that’s all.’

I waved away his apology, but held him back with a tug at his sleeve.‘Raffles?’

‘Mm?’

‘Things will get better, you know. You’ll have so much more freedom once we’re out of England, and-- It’s just a little while longer. You just have to be patient a little while longer. It won't be like this forever.’

‘Nothing is forever, rabbit. Oh, don't look at me like that,' he added with a weak laugh. 'I’m happy. I'm fine. I'm... I'm going to go and have a bath. All right?’

'All right,' I nodded, and he leant down to kiss the top of my head as he left.

Alone in the sitting room, I curled up in A. J.’s chair, resting my cheek against the cushioned backrest. It was still warm from where he had been sitting. I leafed through my manuscript once again, checking for mistakes, checking for the little improvements I could make here and there to make the thing read more fluidly. More resonantly. More _plausibly_. 

And yet I found myself suddenly unable to read with the cold and clinical eye of the editor. I found my objective judgement irrationally clouding over with tears. And I found myself holding Raffles all the more tightly that night as he slept; holding on to him as though I had lost him; as though I might yet lose him; as though I could hear the gunshot.

But it _was_ only a _story_.

It was _only fiction_.


End file.
